


Cold Cocked

by orphan_account



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Bondage, Dubious Consent, Egbertcest, Incest, M/M, PWP, underage (unspecified)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-05
Updated: 2012-12-05
Packaged: 2017-11-20 08:51:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,558
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/583496
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“Hands together,” he continues with a hum, pleased with John’s shaky but prompt compliance and how well those slender wrists fit into his palm. Guiding them down to the towel rack on the side of the island, he watches John’s hands form tight little fists as they’re trapped between silk and stainless steel.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cold Cocked

**Author's Note:**

> (Think dubcon in terms of standard beta universe Striders)

Dinner was hours ago, the dishes are drying on the rack...all that's left is a light dusting of flour on the kitchen island, but it's a simple matter to clean that up.

So why would John be in here? "Shouldn't you be getting ready for bed?" Dad tests, face half in shadow and half lit by the fluorescent over the sink. Turning more to face his son, he towels his hands off and waits, curious.

At least John's dressed for sleep, loose flannel pajama bottoms low on his hips.

"Thirsty," John says simply, and from the sound of it maybe his throat is a little dry. Dad rests a hip on the counter and watches John move toward the fridge. "Not all that tired, either. Hand me a glass?" he asks after pulling the door open a bit.

Instead of answering or reaching for a cupboard, Dad sets the towel down and closes the distance between them in two steps. "I could have brought something to you in your room," he says in a low tone. John's shoulders are drawn up a bit, his brows drawn down. Dad takes the handle to the fridge and pulls it farther open, grabbing the soda out of John's hand. "Caffeine's hardly a way to wind down," he says, voice flat with disapproval.

"Dad, I-"

"No." He puts the soda back with a clang, and reaches for the pitcher of water in the back. Releasing the door, he grabs for John's wrist and tugs him away from the fridge and toward the kitchen island. The door closes gently and again the kitchen is dim. "Up," he says, jerking his chin toward the island, pulling John roughly enough that he has to steady himself with his free hand. "Have a seat." With a final, completely unnecessary shove, Dad releases his son.

John hits the island with an _uhf_ , the sharp breath sending up a puff of flour. He's half-leaning, braced on his palms when he looks over his shoulder. He does as he's told, though, turning his back to the island and hopping up with another soft dustcloud. He settles into a nervous self-hug, worrying at his lip and watching. He swallows dryly, but doesn’t seem all that interested in a drink anymore. Maybe he’ll think to just head to the bathroom next time if this lesson sticks. "Fuck!" he hisses, torn from his thoughts by the frigid glass of the pitcher against his chest.

Dad grins, pleased by John's flinch as he shudders and scoots back an inch or two. "Language," he chides, but he can't keep the smile out of his voice. He leans forward and tips the pitcher, threatening to spill some in John's lap. "Lie down."

"What? No _CHRIST_ ," and wow that was pretty damn shrill. "Dad what the fuck!" John cries, chin tucked and looking in disbelief at the water running down his chest. He falls back and scoots a bit more like he's trying to escape it. His breathing picks up and he's hissing through his teeth, back flush against the surface and ribs showing with each inhale. He fixes Dad with a frightened, pissed off glare.

Setting the pitcher down at his son's side, he offers a warm "Good boy," when John gasps and his skin shrinks away from the glass (God he loved to watch the kid squirm). He loosens his tie while John takes stock of things, eyes darting between the pitcher, his dad, and the doorway. "Arms up," he says as he pulls his tie free and straightens it out. "Hands together," he continues with a hum, pleased with John's shaky but prompt compliance and how well those slender wrists fit into his palm. Guiding them down to the towel rack on the side of the island, he watches John's hands form tight little fists as they're trapped between silk and stainless steel. He ties a quick knot and straightens up to admire his work. 

God but he's beautiful. He hasn't filled out yet, but there's a toned strength that's clear with every shadow cast by the sink light. "There." John's breathing has steadied, but it's still quick, distressed. Though the light catching each curve and hollow is distracting, Dad continues, leaning a hip against the edge near his son's waist. "I'm sure the neighbors get to bed at a decent hour, so do keep your voice down."

"...yes, sir," and the kid sounds small. He watches as his dad dips his fingertips into the pitcher. John stops breathing and tenses his stomach as Dad's right hand hovers over it, moving slowly from navel to throat.

Fingers make it to his lips without a single fallen drop. 

"You're thirsty," Dad reminds him, and earns a glare. He places a featherlight touch to John's lips, barely enough contact, but the water moves.

Though he jerks his face to the side with a sharp inhale, his breath is only through his nose.  _I'm not that fucking stupid_ is clear from John's narrowed eyes, but "Yes, sir," is what he says when an insistent, cold finger passes over his lip. He can fight the urge to writhe, but there's a telltale shudder and gooseflesh prickles down his skin.

Pressing a thumb against John's mouth and meeting resistance, Dad counters by flattening his palm and cupping his son's jaw. "Don't fight me, boy," he warns gently. Before they lose their chill, Dad slides his fingers back and into the downy hair at the nape of John's neck. He takes a quick sip from the pitcher and leans forward, catching the corner of John's mouth before tightening the grip on his hair.

He leans back and takes another swallow. 

But for his panting, the boy is very still. John's pinned by Dad's forearm on his left collarbone, and held still by the fist in his hair. His throat's exposed, elbows drawn up, breath shallow.

Dad draws his leg up to sit hip-to-hip with John and keep him from doing much from the waist down. He sets the pitcher down, pressing against the skin of John's right armpit. 

Sweat from the glass trickles down and John swears. He knows better than to struggle.

He tries to keep his upper arm off the pitcher, but Dad just scoots it closer and ups the pressure on his collarbone. He dips his hand into the water, then shakes droplets onto John's skin and leans in to kiss at each one. "Be good," he whispers into John's throat when he releases the grip on his hair and slides his hand free.

Dad leaves both hands in the water it until it until the cold begins to sting. John shuts his eyes when Dad moves to stroke lazy wet patterns across his skin, neck to throat to shoulders to chest. 

When thumbs reach his nipples, John stomps a heel against the surface of the island, rasping out a "Dad that hurts!" which gets him a rough pinch. "Fucking cold," he whines, trailing off when he feels the glass pull away from his side. _Shit_.

He screws his eyes shut even harder and forces the air out of his lungs to keep from squealing when the water hits him as expected. He arches hard enough to make the island shift on its wheels. Water pools in the hollow of his throat and his navel, trickling down his sides, along the V of his hips and into the waistline of his pajamas. Dad tips and pours each time the trickles slow, and each of John's movements sends new glistening paths across his skin. He sets the pitcher down again.

John's chest is heaving with the effort not to scream, and his breath hitches when he feels a warmth on his skin. Flat, heavy palms smooth out the water and rub much more gently this time, kneading into John's shoulders and stroking his sides. Dad places his right hand on John's chest and uses the other to tilt his son's face. Nervous gnawing has made his lip red and warm, and he tastes mint when he passes his tongue over it. He sucks it into his mouth but then keeps it close-lipped for a few gentle seconds before pulling away. He exhales through his nose and presses another kiss to John's lips, coaxing him to respond.

John isn't kissing back.

"Look at me," he murmurs, petting John's hair and moving his other palm down John's stomach. "Open your eyes," he says when he reaches the wispy trail leading to a damp waistband. He plays at the elastic for a bit but doesn't slip a hand inside. Instead, he cups a hand over the modest tent, massaging John's half-hard cock.

John gasps and lifts his hips when he feels the touch at his inner thigh through the fabric. Dad's tongue's in his mouth and they're chest to chest; he's finally starting to warm up, but he's still pissed off. He closes his teeth in warning and there's a rasp against his teeth as Dad withdraws his tongue but doesn't move away.

"Careful." He smiles against John's lips and keeps at his erection. Then he pulls away completely, standing. There's a quiet, metallic sound as he undoes his belt buckle, and a _shiff_ as he pulls it from around his waist. "Thought I told you to look at me."

He squints through his lashes before his eyes go wide at the folded belt in Dad's hands. "Fuck no, I'm done," he says with a pinched voice. "You're not fucking whipping me," he grits, moving to swing his legs over the side but crying out when his arm wrenches. 

Dad's quick to pin him flat again, glancing to make sure John doesn't squirm himself into a dislocated shoulder. "Shh, be still," he says quietly. When John does just that, he knows he failed to keep the concern out of his voice. "No one's going to hit you," he whispers. He rises again, face dark with worry, and lets the belt fall to the floor. He breaks just enough to kiss the tears forming at the corners of his son's eyes. "Okay?" Barely audible.

With a few quick blinks, John whispers, "I know what to say, Daddy," and closes his eyes again, catching his breath. "Just stung. My fault."

Relief tingles down Dad's spine and he pulls back after a final kiss to John's eyelashes. He licks the salt off his lips and reaches down for the belt. He sets it next to John and tests his voice again, "Let's get these wet clothes off you, then." Slight waver. Damn.

John inhales deeply and bites the tip of his tongue with tiny nod before he says, "Good luck finding my balls, we're lucky I'm not singing soprano."

Dad peels away the pajama bottoms and chuckles before dropping them to the floor.

"Don't laugh at me, I get it from you."

Dad just shakes his head and pats John's thigh. "Do I need to bind your ankles to a knob or will you behave?"

"No belt. Get up here."

"Manners."

"Please."

Grateful for John's willingness to step up when he falters in his own control, Dad unbuttons his shirts and drops it onto the pajamas. With a quick _hup_ he's on the island, swinging a leg over John's thighs to straddle him. He leans forward on his knees and is finally put at ease when his kiss is returned. He hums into John's mouth and slides his tongue over his teeth, enjoying the softness of his boy's whole body. With a fond peck to each salt streak, he sits back up. "Love you."

"Laa...mm," John says when he feels a hand cup his dick again. With a few long strokes he's half hard and his balls start to relax. He closes his eyes again rocks his hips until he cries " _Fuck!_ " at the cold thumb on his nipple. Further protest is muffled by wet fingertips sliding into his mouth, cool and sweet. He sucks at them and resumes moving in time with both his father's hands.

Dad drips more water onto John's lips before his fingers are sucked in again. He releases John's cock and it bobs once before falling to his stomach, precum beading at the tip. Fumbling with his fly as he watches John, he eventually frees his erection to rest heavily on John's hip. They both appreciate the disparity. Someday John's downy fuzz would fill in, hell, he might grow to Dad's girth, but for now the only common ground's their foreskins and flushed olive complexion.

Dad grips them both and rolls his hips, shaft sliding smoothly between his palm and his son's hardon. Taking his fingers from John's mouth, he drags blunt nails over his side, trailing down each rib and keeping a steady pace with his thrusts. He hears John gasp something, but he doesn't quite catch it. "Hm?"

"Harder," he breathes. "Daddy," he pleads when he feels less pressure instead of more. "Please," and he's rewarded with a stroke to his cheek that stops being gentle as soon as it gets below the neckline area. Parallel welts rise and trail from his throat and down his side before Dad slides his hand under John's ribs, bracing himself on his forearm and clawing into his son's back. He lies flush against John's chest and picks up pace and pressure on their cocks. His cheek's just over John's heart, thudding through the sound of both their panting. There's a hiss as stubble sands across that delicate skin, and the breath is released in a thick groan when Dad nips and then creates a seal. He sucks and laps at the flesh between his teeth, feeling one or two strands of hair. His smile almost breaks the suction, so he bites hard enough that John arches against his face.

He has to let go to catch his breath, grinning as he places his ear back against his son's heartbeat. He changes the twist to his strokes a bit when John's movements get unsteady, flattening his other hand before digging his nails in again. He crushes John against him and comes, riding it out with a rough growl that John matches an octave higher. For a few pulses they're even in sync.

"Fucking get off me and untiemywristsohmygod," tumbles out of John's mouth. There's a wheeze to his panting, but he offers slight laugh. "My shoulders are fucking killing me, Dad. Careful with the pitcher, but god please let me up."

Damned if that isn't a hard request to meet, though. Dad shifts to all fours, lifting his ass off John's thighs and then dismounting. He'll hardly say a word about it, but the cum on his stomach is cold as he steps over to undo the knot in his tie. He stoops down for the pajama bottoms to wipe John off first, kissing his forehead and helping him sit upright. He wipes away the rest of their cum away before it dries, tossing the pajamas back down.

John kneads himself from shoulders to wrists, and then chafes his upper arms to warm up some. He finds himself scooped up like a bridal ragdoll and hugged tightly to Dad's broad chest. 

Smiling into John's hair, his breathing's still a little heavy when he asks, "Ready for bed yet?"

**Author's Note:**

> [Also on Tumblr](http://renaris.tumblr.com/post/37234289922/cold-cocked).
> 
> Huge thank you to [Rose](http://www.ahmerst.tumblr.com) and [Puck](http://www.fastpuck.tumblr.com) for being equally responsible for inspiring me!


End file.
